Invisible Inheritance

Part of an ongoing thread of vignettes exploring memory, inheritance and family.

I ran to Florida, too.

When my life in New York became too heavy, when the pain felt like it was following me everywhere, I packed up and moved south. I was looking for the same thing he was: a fresh start. A place where the hurt couldn’t find me. I thought geography could heal what time hadn’t.

I didn’t last.

I don’t know how long he stayed. Maybe twenty-five years, maybe closer to thirty. But I know why he left.

He lost his wife, my grandmother.
And from what I understand, staying in New York meant living inside that loss every single day.

So he left.

At the time, I didn’t know any of that. I didn’t understand his grief or what he might have been trying to outrun. I barely knew him at all. He wasn’t there in the ways that shape your day-to-day world.

But now, looking back, I can’t ignore what I see.

Because when my own life cracked open, when I lost someone I loved in a completely different way, I made the same kind of decision.

Not the same loss.
Not the same circumstances.
But the same kind of heartbreak that rearranges you.

And I ran.

It wasn’t until I started writing about his move to Florida that I realized it:

I had followed the same exact path.

The same instinct. The same quiet decision to leave when staying felt impossible. The same belief that distance might be enough to make something inside of you settle.

And the thing is I never saw him make that choice.

So how did I end up making it anyway?

Growing up, I thought the people who shaped you were the ones who were present the ones sitting at your dinner table, driving you to school, showing you how to move through the world. I knew my grandfather existed. I knew he was somewhere in Florida. But I never thought his absence could still leave an imprint.

I never considered that I might carry something of his without ever being taught it.

But when I look at it now, it’s hard to ignore.

We both left New York when something inside of us felt too heavy to hold. We both went to the same place, chasing the same kind of relief.

And at least for me, it didn’t work the way I thought it would.

The change of scenery didn’t quiet what I was carrying. It just gave it a different backdrop.

And I wonder now if it was the same for him.

Writing this book, having these conversations with him now, it’s changing the way I understand both of us. It’s showing me that influence doesn’t always come from presence. Sometimes it shows up in patterns, in instincts, in the choices you make without fully understanding why.

I came from him. That’s true whether he was there or not.

And maybe that means something of him has always been in me, not through lessons or memories, but through the ways we both tried to survive.

The places we ran to.
The things we hoped would fix us.
The moments we chose to leave instead of staying.

For a long time, I thought those choices were mine alone.

Now I’m starting to see them differently.

They’re not just mine.

They’re ours.

This is part of a longer thread I’m still working through, one I don’t fully know the shape of yet. If you want to keep reading as this thread unfolds, you can subscribe and follow along.

If you missed the first one shared you can find it here: